Poems Sigourney 1834/A Father to his Motherless Children
A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.
Come, gather closer to my side,
My little smitten flock,
And I will tell of him who brought
Pure water from the rock—
Who boldly led God's people forth
From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float,
All helpless on the Nile.
You're weary, precious ones, your eyes
Are wandering far and wide,
Think ye of her who knew so well
Your tender thought to guide?
Who could to Wisdom's sacred lore
Your fixed attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed Mother's name.
'Tis time to sing your evening hymn,
My youngest infant dove,
Come press thy velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;
My sheltering arms can clasp you all,
My poor deserted throng,
Cling as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angel's song.
Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain,
Come, warble loud and clear;
Alas! alas! you're weeping all,
You're sobbing in my ear;
Good night—go say the prayer she taught,
Beside your little bed,
The lips that used to bless you there,
Are silent with the dead.
A father's hand your course may guide
Amid the thorns of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storms of strife;
But who, upon your infant hearts
Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear, smitten flock, good night!